The Burrow
by jennygiraffadil
Summary: It's more than just a house to Harry and Ron. It's the place they fell in love. Even if they didn't realise it. An account through the years, how it changed from adventure playground to sanctuary. And how they changed from friends into so much more.


**The Burrow  
**___this obsession I must admit has me shaken up a bit._

_by littlelesslostboys_

**DISCLAIMER: I wish.  
**_Harry Potter/Ron Weasley  
_-------------------------------------------------

When they were eleven, it was a place of fun. Harry's first visit told them that. A whole summer of nothing but chess and quidditch and (occasionally, when mum would let them) swimming. The great ditch out back, when filled with water, was like an adventure mine. And other than the slight scrape on Ron's hip and the blood on Harry's nose, it was perfect.

When they were eleven it was a place to waste time. When all the water was drained into thin air, they knew it was time to go back to Hogwarts.

But they would remember it. 

--

When they were twelve, it was a place of wonder. Neither of them could wait for the holidays to come around again - all year they had spoke about it, the great times they'd have, how maybe they could lock Percy's books in the broom shed or at the bottom of the great willow tree and watch the fireworks. That was more Ron's idea, but they both laughed. It drove Hermione up the wall but that was never a reason for them to stop. In Ron's eyes, it was a reason to drag it on longer, see how far they could go until she snapped. Harry always apologised then, or tried to, before Ron interrupted and they all argued. Calmed with a few bottles of butterbeer and a promise of homework.

When Ginny was taken, all Ron could think of then was home. Her face as she dived into the water, soaking mum and dad, who scolded them something stupid for two and a half weeks. Her laugh as bats circled the house from Fred and George's room for three days after they had said she was "just a girl". When Harry brought her back all he could think of was how nice it would be to get home, to see her again swinging her legs through the old muggle hoop hanging from the tree (Harry said it was called a tyre. He believed him) and knowing everything was as it should be.

When they were twelve, it was familiar.

But neither would talk about what a relief it was to be back.

--

When they were thirteen, it was a safe house. As they called it anyway, maybe not to each other, but it's what they both thought, nonetheless. They spent the summer hiding from rumours. Sirius Black, everyone was saying, whispers behind hands and radios. Newspaper cuttings strung up everywhere so Harry could be reminded, every step he took, just how close he was to dying. Even if he wasn't really. The ditch was left to stagnate, slowly turning a mouldy green as the water clung to the sides. The mud floating on the surface with the moonlight as they watched from the window. Two sihlouettes, too far apart.

It was a memory when, this time, Ron was taken. Dragged through to the shrieking shack. There was panic. And Hermione was just as bad. Harry thought of every single summer he and Ron had spent together. Every moment he was grateful, both for his friend, and for a place he didn't feel like he had to try and fit in. He wanted it back. He never wanted it to have to leave. And they fought. And fought. And when they found out they were fighting the wrong enemy all along, they fought harder to preserve every last memory of the place.

When they were thirteen, it was worth it.

But they never said a word.

--

When they were fourteen, it was a war zone. 'Full of tension' Harry had overheard Mrs. Weasley mutter to her husband when she thought they were all asleep. And he knew he had to agree. The tri-wizard tournament had been hard on them all and it showed through the cracks, sewed together eloquently with the same as every other summer - quidditch, chess, swimming, but the silences that stretched through the evenings and the rain were almost unbearable. The twins would show up with some new invention they were working on and it would feel okay, it would feel great, for a little while. It hadn't meant to damage them. He hadn't thought it had damaged them. Although Cedric's death had damaged them all a little on the inside, right under the heart, where nobody would have to see. 

The second task had been the worst, no matter how Harry thought about it. Even if he knew Ron wouldn't _really_ be kept by the lake, the merpeople, the thought of things turning ugly just because of him made him cringe. He thought of summer again, of going back to those days when it didn't matter what was going on, or who was saving who, because none of it was as important as who could dunk who under the water first or who could climb highest up the trees. He missed being eleven, when his best friend was just that - his best friend. No complications. No - no _girls_. Which made it even harder. The thing he'd 'miss most'. All it did was make him bitter and he couldn't quite put his finger on why. But he was almost certain it was part of what was creating the tension. Of course, he would never tell Ron that, one argument was enough for him for life. He didn't know what he'd do without him. Without their summers. 

When they fourteen, it was not quite there.

But they forgot about it all when the sun came out.

--

When they were fifteen, they missed it. All those glorious days packed away into little boxes as they were carted off to Grimmauld place. Traded for dark, dingy corridors full of portraits of miserable looking witches and wizards with scathing brows and hollow cheeks. They were both irritable and they both spent hours staring out of windows at the back of alleyways, hoping for a glimpse of sunlight -- of something. Harry started going to bed early and waking up late to sleep it all away. Ron started doing the same and Hermione scolded them both, because she noticed then. When it was Ron. Harry was the 'tragic hero' according to the Newspapers, the magazines, and as much as people said they knew him better than that, he had a suspicion a tiny part of them still clung to every idea they put in their heads. Locked away. Just incase. He had every right to lock himself in his room for as many hours as the day would let him. Ron didn't have any right to show him he understood.

He didn't want to go back, though, after Sirius's death. He didn't want to go to a place full of such happy memories to ruin them all, or (in some miraculous turn-around) for being there to make _him_ happy, when he felt he should be spending his time grieving. He was spending his time grieving. He wanted to be in the house with the dark rooms and the dark ceilings, and the floors that creaked 'traitor'. He wanted to be away from Ron incase he slipped and realised something. He half wished the dementors would come back and suck all of the potentially happy thoughts from him before they could battle to the very front of his conscious. He wanted them gone so he could concentrate fully on how he was supposed to feel.

Ron was there for him anyway. With chocolate frogs and talking only when the words felt right. 

When they were fifteen, it was silent.

But that was exactly what they needed.

--

When they were sixteen, it was a secret. It wasn't quite as boisterous as they felt it should be, but they were growing up. Sitting by the water hole at night, fireflies lighting up the moss and greens, they decided on it. They were growing up. No more spontaneous water fights or cannon bombs. No more 'eat until we pass out' or comic books until dawn. There were girls, as Ron said, and worlds to be saved, as added Harry. And neither of them smiled but sat there, staring up at the sky as the slightly damp grass clawed at their shorts. They didn't saunter back up to the house until all the hands on Mrs. Weasley's magnificent clock hung on 'awake'. And that was the last thing they wanted to be after talking all night. The moon had caused hands to fidget and necks to tilt back in such a way they were caught in just the right place by the soft breeze. It caused hearts to turn to static. And pound. Harry thought he should still be in mourning. Ron still was, he just never expected it to be over a living person.

Mrs. Weasley made Harry anything he asked for that summer. And Ron pushed him to ask for favourites, only for laughter to burst through wide kitchen windows when she found out exactly what he was doing and popped a wad of spinach in his casserole. Harry grinned all night at the way he had spit it out all over the table, to be kicked hard by Fred and George (seperately then together) for having it land on the side of their plates. Harry asked for chocolate cake and treacle tart that night, to make it up to him. And they sat out against the willow tree to eat it.

Knuckles brushed fingers as they set their plates down at the same time. The deep-throated croak of a toad made them both laugh before the conversation turned serious, as it often did then. Their fingers brushed, then their hands, approximately twelve times that night. And it wasn't until the very last day of summer until they were both brave enough to let them interwine properly. It wasn't much, but to them, it was enough.

They went home for Christmas that year and despite the chill, took up their usual spot beside the tree. Both in scarves and hats and anything else Mrs. Weasley could find to stuff them in before they had chance to run out of the door. The ditch was hollow and empty and the branches of the willow were iced over with thick leaves of snow. They crouched down, and talked, and laughed, and tried not to break too badly. They weren't quite as hesitant when their wrists bumped together that time, and took hold of one another's hands without a second thought.

A week into the holidays and they were shivering under a blanket by the fire. Potions! Potions. It was always hard to get hold of ones for a cold that time of year. But they learned their lesson despite the anxious whispers late at night, when the others had gone to bed, about getting better to go sit out again and eat Christmas pudding, just them. It wasn't until they talked about family that they argued, and Harry kissed him. Ron looked startled, his knuckles turning white against the edge of the blanket, until he smiled. Harry smiled back gratefully and lips met lips, hands met hands, and they kept each other warm. It was dizzying. Like apparating, Harry thought, only much better.

By the time the snow melted, they found a perfect place behind the tree. Wide enough to hide them both from prying eyes. Ron could press Harry up against the trunk and his body could slide up against him - just right. The space between them could become compressed air and their breathing could fade away into loose belts and grazed knees. And nobody would find out.

When they were sixteen, it was full of surprises.

But neither of them ever complained.

--

When they were seventeen, it was full of love.

When they were eighteen, it was home.


End file.
